Loyal Hands
by rednightmare
Summary: "The only good paladin is a dead paladin. Fortunately, this is a holy war, and we're fairly easy to come by." - Sir Cathielle Ivan Corbet (NWN1 tale. Focuses on henchmen vignettes, paladin banter, the trouble Tomi gets everyone in and the stupid things Sharwyn has to do to get them back out of it.)


_**Author's Note**_**: Welcome, all! Thanks for visiting. This is a little collection of drabbles I wrote up because I felt the **_**Neverwinter Nights**_** category can never have too much love. The chapters will be non-sequential scenes focusing heavily on character development and relationship building. While I will expand upon canon information (and possibly tweak small elements), I'll try not to do any plot-breaking, extensive rewriting of the game's established NPCs. **

**Most of this tale will follow a party comprised of my own character and a smattering of henchmen – Daelan, Sharwyn, Linu and Tomi (all of whom I thought were brilliant). Also expect appearances from Boddyknock & Grimgnaw as well as Valen & Nathyrra. It will include content from the original campaign and from HOTU, with the assumption that the "Hero of Neverwinter" is indeed the adventurer headed into Undermountain. **

**For those who like to know a few details before throwing yourselves into a long-winded story, **_**Loyal Hands**_** follows the troopers who in turn follow my Illuskan paladin of Tyr, Cathielle Ivan Corbet. Yes, yes. A gods-damned **_**paladin**_**. I know. I hope to give you a paladin experience that differs from the usual faire, however, as I personally can't get invested in characters who don't come riddled with flaws. A little corruption, torture, self-interest and some very liberal interpretations of church vows make for more entertainment than a preachy drudge. That in mind, I'm not taking this endeavor so-very-seriously. **_**Loyal Hands**_** – like my earlier piece, **_**Cake –**_** is purely to have and share some fun. Haven't made up my mind about any potential character deaths, romance or other severe plot points. It'll come eventually, but you'll know when I do. **

**Thank you for reading, and I hope you find some amusement!**

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A KNIGHT'S OATH**:  
**Be loyal of the hands and mouth, and serve every man as best you may. Seek the fellowship of good men; hearken to their words and remember them. Be humble and courteous wherever thou go, boasting not nor talking overmuch, neither be dumb altogether. Look to it that no lady or damsel be in reproach through your default, nor any woman of whatsoever quality. And if you fall into company where men speak with disrespect of any woman, show by gracious words that it pleaseth you not, and depart.

**LOYAL HANDS  
**_The Templar's Men (and Ladies)_

**Of Good Men**

On the eve of their descent into Undermountain – dripping, reeking, claw-marked hedge maze that it was – Linu La'neral prayed fearfully, and Sir Corbet drank.

Cathielle watched her thoughtfully. The paladin was leant back in a wicker chair, both boot heels kicked onto _The Yawning Portal's_ common room table, observing his companion with a dull amusement. Lakewater grey eyes blinked slowly. Brown hair, cut short and darker than maple wood (recently washed, at that) trickled water down his neckline. Warm air inflated the man's chest beneath a cotton shirt. Fire huffed in this inn's small upstairs hearth. A laid-back and only dimly divine presence in the stark building – slightly soused, sluggish, an unconcerned and lopsided smile across blunt white teeth – he sort of resembled a satiated rattler. Not wonderful imagery for a warrior of God, but a city prodded by drow scouts couldn't afford to be picky. They really couldn't afford Sir Corbet and Company, if you'd have asked Mr. Undergallows's professional opinion… but there was a reason no one ever did. As it stood, _this_ crusader was rather content to relax and let Linu fret over their undying souls. He felt like soap and schynbald polish which was a definite improvement from saddles, dirt and horse sweat. Who could say? Perhaps he'd even manage some decent sleep tonight.

There was a quarter-full bottle of lavender wine in his right hand, and Sir Corbet welcomed the fuzziness it brought despite the pretentious flavor. _'Too sweet and a funny aftertaste.' _Sharwyn had bought drinks tonight – not that he generally trusted their tart bard's notions of taste, in music or in beverages – but alas. Regrets never served much purpose when it came to tavern visits. He shook the feminine stuff experimentally, liquid tinkling about against glass.

Its sloshing sounds made their cleric flinch at her devotions. Cathielle sensed irritation rolling off the elf; he tilted his head to one side, blinked again, and held out the bottle to her bowing back.

"You're certain you don't want a swig of this, Linu?" the Tyyran offered, lazy Queen's English and just as lazily polite. She stiffened further, thin lips twisting. Both of a holy-rolling disposition, templar and healer usually got along – _usually_. But there were those irksome occasions in which Corbet rubbed her the wrong way with his sharp tongue and lackadaisical attitude towards meditation. This was rapidly shaping into one of those occasions. At present, the typically bubbling La'neral was all bristle and cat's paws, shoulders tightening beneath that furry blue robe. Cathielle thought she looked ridiculous. But then again, poor thing – stained blouse, sodden shoes, frazzled hair or muddy slacks – looked ridiculous most of the time. The paladin felt a twinge of comic sympathy, remembering how they'd met. _'Dear, dear woman – she tripped over a shield and knocked herself cold on my breastplate.' _

Corbet made a precautionary sweep for his armor. The metal plates were lying in a white-gold-silver pile next to Daelan's slightly less-tidy leather pile.

Their troupe had taken fort in Durnan's… well, 'excellent' would be a stretch, but they had nevertheless been relieved at reaching this modest establishment simply to get out of the biting Waterdeep rain. Oh, Cathielle supposed the enormous harbor impressed him well enough. This city had size and culture aplenty; it crunched differently than Neverwinter, which was fine-and-dandy for a man with nothing but hatred left for that miserable puddle of land. But there was no denying it: the place _stunk_. It smelled like tree rot and sulfur, sunned fish and moss, mud and manure on slick cobblestones. (As Linu had already discovered, cow-pies and pebbled walkways did _not_ mix.) The dryness of this hostel and the relative safety of a well-policed town didn't entirely overshadow its unpleasantness. None of the locals seemed to notice, either, but Sir Corbet had detected _awful_ from miles away. _'Who knew? Maybe one grows accustomed to breathing bluegill skin after so long?' _Either that, or the particular… aroma… bleached their sinuses out.

_The Yawning Portal_ had provided a hot meal of game bird and potato soup, though, so even Sharwyn could not complain overmuch. It had also provided this small housing wing for remarkably low cost, as they'd pledged to do their part for Waterdeep's dark elf-extermination statistics come morning. The floor was rather cramped; it hosted an unassuming central corridor flanked by the private sleeping quarters they'd rented. But the rooms offered sourdough bread and pressed sheets; the semi-public hall sported a fireplace, portraits of distinguished wizards and beautiful warriors; and downstairs presented them with a most rare and treasured adventurer's luxury: baths. A trivial fight had erupted once they secured their personal belongings. Admittedly, the gentlemen had probably won – but out of sheer self-preservation (and because no one wanted to wash behind a half-orc, no matter how well-spoken), they ceded first rights to the ladies.

Sir Corbet heaved a sigh. That was probably the last time any of them would see bathwater for a good long while. He slicked a hand through wet brown hair and watched droplets run through his fingers.

"No, my friend – no, but thank you." Linu's curls were tangled in one large, slumping knot on the back of her head. She was struggling to hold up a chipper tone of voice. The cleric's bony fingers looked more like talons as they waved out a spent incense stick, though. Nerves did that to her. She got horrible stomachaches on nights before battle and often found herself heaving over the battlements as opposed to mixing ointments. "Are you certain you want to, ah… indulge so close to our trip? Not that I don't think you are perfectly capable of staying within your limits, sweet, forward-thinking Cathielle, _but_." (There was always a 'but,' wasn't there?) "You wouldn't want to have a muggy head while hopping over hot lava, would you? I'd go to the ends of the earth if it would keep you four safe and healthy, you know – but I'm afraid there's just not much I can do for full-body charring." Ah, those nerves… though they may have upset her constitution, they did absolutely nothing to stop that lady's constant doting. Tomi didn't mind – didn't mind a bit _too_ heartily, if you'd have asked the resident paladin – but her carrying on often rolled Red Tiger's eyes.

Yes, that was about right. Linu had fallen in with them because she'd caught her toe on someone's parked buckler in an overcrowded Hall of Justice and smacked face-first into Sir Corbet's cuirass. The original two – inexperienced and then too generous for their own bumbling good. It had been horrifying when it happened, of course – only smelling salts revived her and a young Cathielle got quite the fright with a limp elf in his arm and nose blood all down his front – but now? Now it seemed very, very appropriate… a precursor of their entire relationship from there onwards.

Reverend Judge Oleff thoroughly reamed the page who'd left his gear lying about, though. That probably precursed something, too, but Corbet had no flaming clue what it was.

"If I don't, who will? We can't seem to give your poison away, Sharwyn!" the man called into an adjacent room, where bard-in-question folded and re-folded her Undermountain wardrobe. She responded with a loud, unladylike snort. They could not see from the center chamber, but Cathielle assumed the woman stuck her tongue out. "What's done is done. As the group's champion, I volunteer to martyr myself."

To be perfectly honest, Linu wasn't altogether sure what she was still doing here, poking about Faerûn with a moderately-tarnished holy knight. After Synth died – or, the widow supposed, after she found that heavy burlap journal outside Port Llast – it simply hadn't seemed like there was anywhere else to go.

That was all right, though. Cathielle had been a nice boy when they'd met, and he'd grown into… perhaps not a wholly _nice_ man, but a reliable one. Straight posture; clear voice. Standard commanding physique for those of a tin paragon persuasion. There was a sort of belated dignity about the templar – a clean, attractive, fine face turned insolent by perpetual skepticism. Oh, sure. He'd been a real ripper roundabout eight years ago – twenty-two, pink-cheeked and ranting his sermons to any shady n'er-do-well on the street. But disillusionment had mellowed Sir Corbet out somewhat. All this time, and Linu continued referring to him as though he were still a young and impressionable temple orphan freshly cast out from under a nun's wing. There was a shadow of it simmering there, though… not the fierce, knightly desire to right each and every one of their world's minor wrongs, but something else. When the templar grew angry – genuinely angry – the sarcasm and flippant demeanor fell flat to reveal danger. His voice would harden and boom, his intelligent stare would burn to hoarfrost and tear the wind out of you like an arrow shaft to the lung; some of that old fire and brimstone would scald through. It had been months since the last time she'd seen this regression. He'd cleaved a bugbear captain's head neatly off its spine – chainmail hauberk, inches of meat, bone and all – one precise, measured '_shwing!_' There was barely any blood on his longsword. She couldn't remember exactly what had happened or what the beast had said to enrage Cathielle so, but so it was. The leaky skull bounced off a rock wall and thumped at her feet. Daelan respected him for it, Sharwyn absently penned it down for future sonnets, Tomi (predictably) found that dumb snarl on the dead brute comical. It scared Linu. There was a zealot's furor smoldering itself out in the crusader's gut, but one that lacked the godly temperance he once held firmly to. And it left very little of her dear friend when those flames were fanned. She sensed no evil, even during those unsettling moments – but it made her worry for him.

Generally, though, you couldn't rise much more than a dubious scoff and a smart-mouthed comment out of the steel tyrant these days.

(Sharwyn always thought paladins were nothing more than holy berserkers, anyway. Perhaps it was because she'd first been acquainted to Cathielle and Linu whilst he was kicking in her then-lover's door.)

La'neral thought about striking up another prayer candle, but their equipment smelled powerfully of sandalwood already, and she decided Sehanine Moonbow had heard enough humble pleas for succor and not-being-eaten-by-balor-lords. "You know, my dear, you can just pour it out a window, I'm sure."

"Waste not," the paladin reminded, and took another quaff off the wine.

Linu frowned and decided she'd better say one extra prayer before turning in: a plea for non-drunken party leaders.

Or at least for slow balor lords.

Sharwyn was making a face when she entered several minutes later, elbows shiny with balm, her pout in no way seductive. She stamped across the hardwood floor on petite bare feet and shot glares about with a fully painted face, stained lips more important to her than splinterless toes. The reason for this foul mood was obvious to everyone who'd been in her company for any significant amount of time. Her _hair_ looked off. Red tresses were split into two large hanks, of which only one had been brushed; the opposite side was left snarled. Normally a bit of damp hair wouldn't have plagued an active adventuress so, but this wasn't an average Bertha Battleaxe – this was _Sharwyn_, mind you – and Sharwyn was very particular about the way she looked. Specifically, the bard hated walking about with a mussed head. She continuously pulled those rich orange locks forward to frame her smoky eyes, running buffed nails through them so frequently that Sir Corbet found it unnatural. The reason for _this_ was largely unknown, however. Cathielle had discovered it completely by accident one evening as they camped outside Charwood, and he'd trodden into her tent without announcing himself.

Sharwyn was gorgeous, obviously, but as the paladin had learned at a young age – no woman came entirely without flaws. And Lady Sharwyn's were the massive ears jutting out from her otherwise quite symmetrical skull.

"Where in the hells is my comb?" she demanded, plucked brows knitted towards the center of her face. Copper eyes accused everyone in their general vicinity. Corbet was glad she'd scrubbed recently, as their self-declared writer had two scents: cinnamon and perfumed cinnamon. He was highly allergic to the berryish latter, but suspected Sharwyn knew this and used it to her advantage. For some 'mysterious' reason, she only doled out hugs and back-pats when they left the templar sneezing viciously for an hour afterwards. Not that it wasn't a bloody good prank on her behalf, but Cathielle had reservations about storming towards the Underdark with watery eyes and post-nasal drip. Poor handkerchief timing might end up with him being blasted across the room by a fireball, undergarments lit aflame… or something else that would only be uproarious in hindsight.

"I haven't seen it, love." Linu answered, because their intrepid leader was currently taking another swallow off the wine bottle. "But feel free to use mine. Let me just pick up this incense and I'll go dig it out…"

That springy-headed La'neral would even _think_ her hygiene products comparable with Sharwyn's ruffled the girl. She held out a sharp, manicured palm. In truth, "the girl" was hardly a girl any longer. She had been a flighty, stringy, underfed twig when Sir Corbet and Linu had encountered her in Neverwinter, but continued jaunts into ogre caves inspired heavier eating. It had been almost six years since; during that time, the heated lady must've packed up and left upon a dozen separate occasions and threatened to do so at least fifty more. She always seemed to find her way back, however. Cathielle had given up scoldings by this point, and honestly, a paladin's discipline never echoed within the minstrel for very long. Sharwyn owned a precious amount of patience and absolutely zero tolerance for diatribes or authoritative voices. "No. I need _my_ comb. My hair's too delicate for pewter; it'll rip out. Are you sure you haven't happened across it? I just had the damned thing in hand. Maybe I left it on the table…?" She checked it hopefully, but was disappointed. The only items holding fort there were empty cups, a creased map, and the crusader's boots.

Corbet set down his drink and yawned. "Well, I don't have it, my dear. Perhaps you ought to ask our rogue? The piece was solid gold, after all."

The singer fired a caustic look in Cathielle's direction for his blasé suggestion, but its odds sobered her. "Oh, you don't think he would… from _me_, to be sure?"

"Sharwyn, I have made it a personal rule to assume nothing of Mr. Undergallows, and you'd probably be wise to do the same."

The lovely bard was rapidly looking more and more like a vindictive Yuan-Ti. Natural rouge burned straight through the blush powdered on shallow cheekbones. Cough up a single piece of evidence, and smoke would've begun puffing from her nostrils. "Where _is_ Tomi?" she ordered. While the woman deepened her natural pitch to sound more exotic, fury uprooted it, and Sharwyn the nasally second-soprano returned.

"I haven't seen him all evening, milady – not since we got here. I suppose I should off and make sure he's not impregnating the inkeep's bonny daughter?" (Linu flashed him a mortified look, and seemed as though she wanted to protest – but decided this scenario, terrible as it sounded, was also fair likely.)

Always a peace-keeper, though, the elf did her best to preserve their group camaraderie before wading into magical traps. "You know, dear friend… is it even worth it? All this arguing will wake Daelan." (Not so. The foundation-rumbling snores were proof of that.) "Tomi probably hasn't seen your comb, either – don't let Cathielle instigate, the dear man. Anyhow. I'm sure there are much nicer ones to be bought in Waterdeep. Let's get dressed; I'll go with you. Besides, I doubt the monsters of Undermountain will judge your grooming too harshly." She offered a brittle smile that was coolly declined.

"And they won't be looking at your _hair_," the paladin threw in, but was ignored. (Ah, he couldn't really hold it against her, anyway. Sharwyn's low-laced corsets won them more free passes than either a barbarian's fists or an offhand templar's pretty words.)

"Pah! I'm not going to let some cheeky little halfling steal from me. I don't care what this pathetic inn thinks of me; let's see what that rat has to say to my backhand," the bard squawked, didn't bother grabbing a coat to cover her moist tunic, and made to stomp downstairs, footsteps bouncing with righteous fury. Cathielle laughed because he thought she looked more like a proper crusader than he did. Well… the compromising top might've been an issue, but perhaps she was a crusader for Sune? The picture walloped him square in the solar plexus with another rude chuckle that he didn't even try muffling.

Sharwyn whirled around only long enough to stab at Sir Corbet with her eye daggers before about-facing for the stairs.

Three steps in, she collided with Tamsil.

"Oh, Gods – ow! I'm sorry," Durnan's daughter spat out through the fingers that clutched her nose. Their kindly minstrel, of course – always the forgiving soul – returned her apologies with a stream of filthy and only half-intelligible curses. Poor waitress looked scared stiff as Sharwyn went storming off towards her room. Every footstep hammered on cheap flooring until she swept through the threshold and slammed its door. Their innkeeper's sandy-haired child looked after with an increasing wince of dismay. Gamey shoulders sunk beneath a peasant's vest. Skinny knees turned inwards. Neither Linu nor Cathielle even thought about dragging the incensed bard out of her bed.

"I really am sorry!" she called after, only to be completely snubbed.

"Can we help you?" the cleric asked, standing and attempting to soothe Tamsil with a calm hazel stare and encouraging smile.

Hence came the deluge of embarrassment: "I can't believe that just happened. Oh, my word. You must think me such a clumsy wench. I'm so sorry. Please tell her it was only an accident. I didn't mean to intrude; I just…" She swallowed painfully. "I doubted that you'd all still be up and about at such an hour. Believe me… had I known, I would've been more careful. I'd never purposefully offend a lady."

Sir Corbet cut her off with another loud, belly-born laugh. "Hah-hah! _Lady_? Oh, no, dear thing – that's only Sharwyn. Don't trouble your darling little head over her, girl," the Tyrran announced, kicked back comfortably in his chair, drink leaving a ring stain upon the large birch table.

The dismissal didn't appear to console Tamsil. Rather, it further derailed her. She chewed on her bottom lip, grimacing, nervous as a spooked kitten. The displeasure radiating from that bolted door, the silence, the hordes underfoot and the paladin looking at her with that off-center, drowsy, not-very-sanctified grin. Besides, her nose hurt. The young woman took a step backwards. "Father wanted me to tell you that we caught a gentleman of your party picking kitchen cabinet locks. Fortunately, he managed to talk the chef out of calling for guards. But you might want to keep an eye on him. You know, in case…"

"Oh, is that all?" the templar chortled, quite unfazed. His arms crossed, fog eyes blinking beneath murky hair. "To tell you the truth, we were hoping to get some well-deserved rest tonight. By all means, tell the good man to do as he pleases with our merry Calimshite. Just toss him into a spare suite and barricade the door. An evening to himself might not be that bad for Mr. Undergallows, and it would certainly do the four of us wonders."

"Cathielle, you're not serious. He's not serious," Linu corrected, civil but insistent. "Please send him up and I promise we'll watch him. I'm sorry for any inconvenience he's caused. Tomi means well, he truly does. He just can't help himself sometimes."

The sir was laughing again. Teeth glistened under chandelier light. "_Tomi_? Hah! Begging your pardon, but come off it, my dear. That rascal means to do as much harm as is humanly possible for someone under five foot high and, incidentally, helps himself _all_ the time. Therein you have the problem."

Green eyes flickered to and fro between them with a troubled expression, caught between two sets of orders. "I'm, uh… I don't think I understand. What should I—?"

"You should just stay very far away from him," was the holy man's advice, "and double-lock your bedroom door."

Linu and Durnan's sweet girl were now both staring at him with the same mute cringe.

"What kind of paladin are you?" Tamsil couldn't rein the question back.

"Why, my dear," Cathielle said, cocked his head, and gestured happily with the wine glass. "I am the only kind worth talking to."

On the eve of their descent, Sharwyn stitched bandages, Daelan Red Tiger sharpened axes, Tomi Undergallows filched silverware, Linu prayed. And Sir Corbet drank himself to sleep on unlikable lavender wine.

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**_AFTERTHOUGHT_: Thanks again for reading. More to come soon, I hope.**


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